On The Grind

Chapter 42

My uniform shirt was beginning to stick to my back as w e neared the four-story Garden Apartments. The building loomed ahead 011 the opposite corner like a big stucco shoe box. It was after midnight, and most of the lights w ere off inside. I paused in a recessed doorway 011 the corner to look the place over before crossing the street.

"What're you waiting for?" Horace prodded.

"You wanta just stroll up the trout walk and start knocking on doors? That's your plan? We're here to clip this guy. It might be better if we're not seen."

"It's late. They're all fucking illegals. They won't mess with us. Nobody wants to risk getting deported. We need to check the mailboxes, see which apartment lie's in. How the fuck else will we find his room?"

I didn't answer and stepped off the curb. I crossed Wilcox and started up the street heading along the west side of the apartment building. I found an alley that ran perpendicular and turned left.

It took two more minutes to get to the rear of the apartment complex, where I saw an eight-foot-high wooden fence with an unlocked back gate. I swung it open and we walked into a small backyard area. Four wooden planter boxes containing water-starved citrus trees supplied the meager courtyard landscaping. We crossed that weed-choked space, staying next to the apartment wall so we wouldn't be seen by any residents who might be sitting on their narrow balconies. Then we went through a large door into the main building.

Once we got to the lobby elevator, I saw a sign Scotch-taped to the metal doors that said:

Utiliza LA ESCALERA.

Out of Service.

I bypassed the main staircase, preferring to use the fire stairs. Then I descended into the subterranean parking garage.

"The fuck you going?" Horace growled as he lumbered along behind me. "Whatta we doin' in the damn garage?"

I went clown one more flight until we reached a large open parking level that contained at least fifty cars. Most of them were old and in pretty bad shape.

"Ain't gonna find him down here," Horace complained. " 'Less he's bangin' his bitch in the backseat."

I found Rocky's empty Mercedes parked in a stall marked 456.

"Apartment four-fifty-six," I told him. "Happy now?"

He wasn't happy. He didn't like being out-thought.

We headed back into the stairwell and started up. If I was going to unload Velario, now was the time.

For the last five minutes, I'd been coming up with and discarding different ways to go about it. He had a reputation as a barroom brawler and was supposed to be eat-quick. Since he didn't trust me, he was being careful to always walk a few feet to the left and behind, staying in my blind spot.

As we reentered the staircase, I heard the creak of leather as he unholstered his sidearm. Then I heard his aluminum street baton coming out of its metal belt ring. I had an ugly image of that murderous Neanderthal trailing behind me with a. 38 in one hand and an eighteen-inch aluminum bat in the other.

I stopped on the third-floor landing and reached for the murder weapon, pulling the street-clean nine-millimeter Para automatic out of the cellophane bag.

"What're you doing?" Horace said, backing away, raising the nose of his. 38 to the vicinity of my groin. His baton was belt-high at the ready.

I'm checking the gun," I said. "Don't want a misfire." I motioned toward his. 38. "And stop pointing that at me."

Horace ignored the request and instead took another step back, giving himself a better range of motion in case I tried anything.

I went through an elaborate weapons check on the Para. I dropped the clip, checked the loads, and jammed it back up into the handle. I carefully slipped the safety forward to the on position. When I finished I looked over at Horace, who was standing there like a video game assassin — shaved head, weapons in both hands, ready to spill some sauce.

"Safety's broken," I said, and pointed the gun at the concrete wall, pulling the trigger helplessly. The hammer wouldn't move.

"Bullshit," Horace said.

"You try it, then." I handed Velario the Para. This caused him a logistics problem because he had the metal baton in one hand and his police 38 in the other. He had to holster something. He finally slid the metal baton back into his belt ring and he took the automatic from me. Once he was holding it, he seemed to drop his guard slightly, because he now had all the unholstered weapons and, except for my police-issue sidearm in its flapped holster, which would be hard to draw quickly, he thought I was momentarily defenseless.

Me lowered his own weapon and glared clown at the little palm-sized automatic, quickly discovering the problem. "There's nothing wrong with the safety, dummy. You just gotta push it clown."

As he said this, my right hand snaked into my back pocket. Horace was still looking clown at the Para as I yanked the leather sap out and made a mighty swing-for-the-fences pivot toward him with the sap at full arm extension. Two pounds of encased lead whistled through the air and hit him square in the teeth. Little pieces of chipped enamel flew like broken pottery. I lis giant head snapped back and hit the concrete wall. He dropped the street gun and barely managed to hang on to his. 38. It dangled precariously from his fingers, momentarily forgotten.

I took one step forward, gave him a backward shot to the temple using my elbow. As soon as that landed, I stomped on his right foot to hold him in place and threw a hard left cross followed by a vicious uppercut with the sap. It was a great three-punch combination, but despite all this, the big ex-linebacker didn't go down. He was stunned, but still standing, his gun hanging loosely from his fingertips. I swatted it away. It clattered to the ground, bouncing clown two steps.

He looked up at me with dull eyes, then grabbed feebly for the sap. I let go of it and he came away with the two-pound lead weight in his hand. Then he tried to get his arm back to swing it, but by now he was moving at half speed. I finished him off with a double left jab over a chopping right. I landed all three perfectly and he slammed back against the wall and started to slide down with a puzzled look on his face. His expression seemed to say, But I never lose one of these.

"We having fun yet?" I asked, then I kicked him in the head. But one eye stayed open, staring. He was slumped over. What's this guy using for a skull? I thought. Forty-gauge iron plate?

I snatched the handcuffs off his belt and cuffed both his wrists through the metal handrail in the stairwell. Then I grabbed the extra pair of socks I'd taken from my duffel earlier and stuffed them into his mouth. He was bleeding from four places on his head and four of his teeth were gone. The rest were shattered. I picked up both guns and turned off his shoulder rover. I was just getting ready to go when I glanced down and saw him staring up at me through one open bloodshot eye. I'd given him the best I had and he was still not out.

"I gotta hand it to you, Horace. I'm impressed."

I turned and left him there.